


Spring's Sacred Arrival, and Summer Hot On Her Heels

by thestarslikedust



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Prose Poem, seasons of hieron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 08:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12272487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarslikedust/pseuds/thestarslikedust
Summary: Seasons change for many reasons.Suggested listening:The Rite of Spring, composed by Igor Stravinsky in the year 1913.





	Spring's Sacred Arrival, and Summer Hot On Her Heels

It can happen one of two ways.

The first: success.

Our intrepid adventurers save the day, miraculously. But an act of the mundanity and eccentricity of life, rather than the will of any deity. Closing that deep rift like one repairs a worn hole in cloth. And then celebration, as the snow is allowed to melt and spring ushers in flowers and grass, and the clouds part, allowing the sunlight to return and thaw the hardened ground.

Rejoice at the natural progression of spring and summer in Hieron, as important to the pattern of life as autumn and winter. The soft and gentle breath of wind—and the rough caress as well. The rain, and the rolling of the ocean, and the pearlescent splendor of life and death.

Birds and beasts and children and those foolish, foolish men and women alike taking the day to wander and live and feel the warmth on their skin. To pick berries, to play in the brook, to run barefoot across the sand. To sit in a boat with a fishing rod, under the smile of the God King Samothes, and nap.

There is a plant, unfurling its leaves, and a kite in the blue, blue sky...

The second: failure.

Something goes wrong—something always goes wrong. It feels like an eternal truth of the universe, that something will go wrong. You place your bets on the table, and the gamble goes awry. So they fail. Nothing is unstoppable, they say... After all, how can you stop the essence of nonexistence?

And so It leeches from the Erasure, an immeasurable, nauseating rush. Like blood in your eardrums, turning your vision to static pressure and wavering lines.

See the Frost Shepherd, that Eternal Youth—his body in the spring snowmelt. Freezing water hissing away into steam. The sky choked in ash, spreading from the City of First Light to all corners, the opposite of a sunrise, yet not a sunset, because sunsets must always lead again to sunrise. An eclipse, but more than that, as winter disperses, yet the sun does not return. As the sea recedes and the rivers boil away and the dirt cracks apart as if it must escape itself.

No Reconfiguration can stop something from happening that is destined to always happen. Even if you stop time, it still marches onward in some manner, intangible as the concept is.

Summer in Hieron is Heat and Dark, in tandem, smothering everything below like a mid-August night with no breeze.


End file.
